


1977

by krikkiter68



Series: Of Stardust and Rabid Foxes [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1970s music, British musician RPF - Freeform, Discussion of Racism, F/M, Fascist-bashing, Nostalgia, Pete Shelley (referenced), Post-Coital Cuddling, Punk, Sexual References, The Master was a punk rocker, do not copy to another site, do not host work on unofficial apps, spanking reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: The Master was briefly in a punk band.Also a tribute to Pete Shelley of The Buzzcocks,  a wonderful human being who left this sphere far too soon.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor - Relationship, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: Of Stardust and Rabid Foxes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913803
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	1977

The Master collapsed backwards onto the bed, gasping, his finely-haired chest heaving madly.

“You’re incredible, Doctor,” he whispered.

The Doctor rolled over, breathing heavily, scooted up beside him and placed her right hand on his chest. She felt his two hearts hammering, and her own hearts seemed to ache in sympathy.

“Speak for yourself,” she murmured.

The Master rolled towards her, slid a hand beneath her and gripped her waist in his strong arms. He laid his head on her breasts, kissing each still-pebbled nipple in turn.

“So soft,” he mumbled, stroking the delicate skin of her right nipple with his agile tongue. The Doctor gasped.

“Sensitive?” 

“Uhh. Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

The Doctor lay back on the bed, the Master’s arms still locked around her waist, his tousled head resting against her chest. She stroked his hair.

“Goodness me, you’re quite the screamer. So, you were saying? This band? I’m intrigued,” she said.

“Right,” said the Master. He took a deep breath.

“We were called The Rabid Foxes. We supported Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Damned, all sorts of bands, in 1977. Care to see a photo?”

“Of course,” the Doctor murmured, intrigued. The Master rolled over and reached down for his coat. He searched through his top pocket and retrieved a black and white photograph, which he handed to the Doctor.

She studied it. For a second, she thought the second person on the left in the photo was a beautiful British Indian girl, then realised they were the Master. Spiky-haired, eyes rimmed with black eyeliner, staring straight into the camera and into her soul. His leather jacket and torn jeans only served to make him look more fragile, and angelic.

“Ooh,” she squeaked, quietly, “don’t you look cute?”

“Call me cute again,” growled the Master, “and I’ll put you over my knees and spank you.”

The Doctor waggled her eyebrows at him.

“Oooh! Is that a promise, Master?” she teased.

He laughed, gently.

“Rassilon, you’re impossible! Anyway. We played all the big clubs in Manchester. The biggest gig we played was at the 100 Club, in London. Supporting The Sex Pistols. I take it you’ve heard of them?”

The Doctor nodded.

“Absolutely. I crossed paths with Sid Vicious once. Now, he was a lost soul.”

She paused.

“The 1970s,” she said, gently. “It must have been a bit difficult for you?”

“Because of my skin colour?”

“Well, yeah.”

The Master rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“It wasn’t easy,” he said, frowning. “I’ll say that. I was called a lot of awful names. There were…a lot of people with no manners.”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said, stroking his chest

“But also, for what it’s worth…I met a lot of, well, exceptional humans around that time, too. I liked my bandmates, for example. We looked out for each other, you might say.”

“Oh, yeah?” the Doctor asked. “What happened?”

“Well, there was this time we were playing a gig in London, and all these National Front people forced their way in…”

“Ugh,” the Doctor said, shuddering.

“Quite. Anyway, one fascist skinhead climbed onto the stage and started punching Brian – Brian was our singer. I liked Brian, so I bashed the skinhead over the head with my guitar and knocked him out. Sorry Doctor, I know you don’t approve of violence, but…”

He glanced at the Doctor and saw her grinning. He grinned back.

“I know, Doctor. I’m sorry I broke that guitar. And it was a Rickenbacker, too.”

The Doctor drew him into a deep hug.

“D’you know what, Doctor?” The Master said. “I know I said the last 77 years were really bad, but..."

“Tell me,” the Doctor murmured, stroking the smooth skin of his back.

“OK. World War Two and its aftermath were terrible. The 1950s were boring, and cold. The 1960s were too soft. The 1980s were too hard. The 1990s were bland, and it’s all a blur after that. But…the 1970s were fine. I liked 1977. And, did I ever tell you, I made friends with Pete Shelley?”

“The Buzzcocks!” the Doctor exclaimed, quietly. “I love them!”

“I loved them too. And him. He was exceptionally intelligent on every level,” the Master said. 

He yawned.

“Might need a bit of a sleep now. To use a human term, I’m knackered.”

The Doctor giggled, softly.

“You were full of energy earlier!”

“I did come five times,” he mumbled.

“Not as many times as me,” she murmured, stroking his hair.

“Yeah,” he whispered, eyelids fluttering, “it’s not a competition…”

She watched as his breathing slowed, holding him close. Once she was confident he was fully asleep, she thought of him onstage, playing his guitar, and quietly projected the image into his mind.

He murmured and smiled in his sleep.


End file.
